“Duffy, that was years ago. He looks ta me like he’s seen better days,” Flynn replied.
“Flynn, jest because a man has some age on him doesn’t mean he’s no longer dangerous. My advice to you is to leave O’Malley be.”
FORTY-TWO
The police found the fourth vest bomb in an abandoned yard in Kensington at 11:45 PM. One of the hookers who plied her trade on Frankford Avenue saw it when she brought her John to her private place for their date.
“It was the easiest twenty dollars, I ever made,” she said. She smiled at the detective flashing the gold capped front tooth in a suggestive manner at the young man. “When I was about to give him…well you know, oral sex he saw the vest and ran away. I looked behind me to see what scared him off and saw it. I figured it was what the fuckin Aarabs must have used at the Mall,” she paused and leaned closer to the detective and said, “Officer, is there any reward money?”
He shook his head.
“Well then, is there anything else I can do?” she asked leaning closer and running her tongue over her lips.
He shook his head again as he tried not to gag on the overpowering smell of her cheap perfume.
The bomb squad was immediately dispatched to the area and quickly determined that the vest was not armed. The squad reported that in all other respects it was identical to the vest they had removed from Farouk/ Alcott and the remains of the vest bombs that had been recovered from the two explosions.
Across town in South Philadelphia, Michael Flynn was sitting in Vito Coratelli’s tiny study. The only light in the room was a desk lamp that cast its illumination in such a manner as to leave Coratelli, who sat behind his desk, in shadow.
“Mr. Coratelli, thanks for meetin with me on such short notice,” Flynn said.
“Mr. Flynn, Danny Duffy and I go way back. I know him to be an honorable man of serious intention. He assured me that the purpose of your meeting was a matter of critical significance, so I felt compelled to meet with you. How can I be of assistance?”
“Mr. Coratelli, I’ve seen you on the tele tellin the reporters that you know your son didn’t commit suicide and that he was murdered. I know where the people who are responsible for your son’s murder can be found.”
Coratelli leaned forward into the light and stared at Flynn as if trying to discern if his visitor was being candid.
“They’re the same bunch responsible for the attack at the Mall today,” Flynn continued. “They’re also behind the theft from the Barnes. Them and the art are in the same place, but they won’t be there for much longer.”
“Mr. Flynn, who murdered my son?”
“Shona Cohen.”
Coratelli stared at him and asked, “Who is Shona Cohen?”
“She works with Ari Nooris and poses as his receptionist.”
“What would she have to do with my son’s murder?”
“Mr. Coratelli, she’s no receptionist. The woman’s a Mossad-trained assassin. She’s a cold hearted killer.”
Coratelli thought that through for a moment and asked, “Did she also kill Mickey Saunders?”
Flynn nodded.
Coratelli, the accomplished trial attorney, showed no reaction to Flynn’s declarations.
“Mr. Flynn, why are you telling me this, shouldn’t you be speaking with the police?”
“Well, ya see there’s a bit of a problem with me meetin with the authorities,” Flynn replied.
“And what exactly would that problem be?”
“Ya see I was the one who stole the art from the Barnes. So I don’t think meetin with the police would be such a grand idea, if ya get my meaning.”
Coratelli smiled and said, “Mr. Flynn, do you have a dollar on you?”
Flynn nodded, reached into his pocket, pulled a dollar bill from his billfold and placed it in Coratelli’s hand.
“Now that I have been officially retained, whatever you tell me will be subject to attorney-client privilege. So, where exactly can these people be found?”
For the next forty-five minutes Flynn provided Coratelli with all of the particulars regarding the whereabouts of the Nooris brothers and their associates, their wealthy benefactor and the stolen works of art.
“Do you know when Nazeur’s yacht will be leaving for Curacao?” Coratelli asked.
“Nah, for all I know it already left. But I put one of the tracking devices from the paintings on the stern of the ship before I left. It’s the same device the police used to track the truck I left at the marine terminal. I’m sure the police will be able to track the vessel if they get on it soon.”
Coratelli picked up the receiver and placed a call.
“Ichowitz,” the recipient responded.
“Izzy, sorry about the hour, but I just became aware of some information that I believe you need to know.”
Coratelli wasted no time in summarizing Flynn’s story.
“Vito, this is the emess?” Ichowitz asked when Coratelli had finished.
“Izzy my friend, would I give you anything else?”
By 2:30 AM, Ichowitz, Jack Regan, the Commissioner and the commander of the PPD SWAT team along with his tactical group leaders had convened in the Commissioner’s conference room at the PAB. Also in attendance was Monroe Ossberg of Homeland Security.
“According to the Harbor Master and the Coast Guard, Nazeur’s yacht, ‘The Haij’ is scheduled to depart from Penn’s Landing at 1000,” George Restrum, SWAT Team Alpha leader informed the group. “If the vessel experiences a problem when it enters the main shipping channel, we can arrange to respond to a May Day and tow the vessel to a location where we can deal with Nazuer’s guests and the cargo. Two members of the Team who were Navy Seals are on standby to ‘assist’ in the operation.”
“Commissioner, don’t you agree that Homeland and the FBI are better equipped to deal with this?”
“Mr. Ossberg, it’s too late to get anyone else involved. If we don’t move on this now, our window of opportunity will close. The Barnes collection and the people responsible for the attack on the Mall will be out of our reach,” the Commissioner responded.
“Look, we’ll make sure your agencies get full credit for cooperating in the operation.”
“Then do we have the green light?” Restrum asked.
“Affirmative,” the Commissioner replied.
FORTY-THREE
“May-Day! May-Day!” the captain of the Haji shouted into the microphone. The vessel had lost all power just as it entered the Delaware River’s main shipping channel. The channel was only 400 feet wide at the Beckett Street Terminal. It would be directly in the path of the freighter laden with Chilean fruit that was scheduled to dock at the Gloucester Marine Terminal within the hour. Captain Hansen could see the freighter approaching from the south through his binoculars.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t we moving?” Sheikh Nazeur asked as he entered the vessel’s command center.
“I don’t know, Your Highness. Everything was checked out last night. When we weighed anchor this morning there was nothing wrong. But as we entered the channel we lost our main power. We need to be towed back to shore,” the captain calmly replied.
“Ahoy, Haji,” they were interrupted by the loudspeaker from the Coast Guard cutter that approached from the stern. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“We’ve lost all power,” Hansen responded and waived out the window at the Coast Guard officer who stood near the bow of the cutter.
Within fifteen minutes the Coast Guard had the Haji in tow. With all the action at the bow of the vessel, no one on board took any notice of the rubber raft that followed the Haji. As the Haji passed through the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge the raft darted up to the stern of the vessel. Someone from the raft threw a rope with a grappling hook onto the Haji and three men silently boarded the ship in less than ten seconds, dropping the line into the Delaware as the raft peeled off, remaining in the shadow of the bridge.
Restrum’s men split up upon boa
rding the vessel and made their way from the stern to the bow, making sure that no one could surprise their team when the operation commenced. An eight-man squad on board the Coast Guard Cutter would board the ship and take the crew and guests into custody, and the three-man team would assure that no one on board could disrupt the assault.
With the element of surprise on their side, the capture of the Haji proceeded without a hitch. The Coast Guard towed the ship to an abandoned pier at Fort Mifflin. The fort was located on Mudd Island near the confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers. As early as the founding of Philadelphia, Mudd Island had been reconigzed as strategically important for the defense of the settlement. In the War of Independence the British army bombarded it and captured the fort as part of their conquest of Philadelphia in the autumn of 1777. Once again the Philadelphia police would use the site as part of their war against the terrorists who had attacked their city.
“What is the meaning of this?” an outraged Sheikh Nazeur ibn Aziz screamed at George Restrum as he was lead into the makeshift interrogation room that had been set up in a restricted area in Fort Mifflin.
Restrum stared at Nazeur and calmly replied, “Mr. Nazeur, you are in a great deal of trouble. Among the passengers on your ship are individuals who are suspected of masterminding and carrying out the terrorist attack on Independence Mall yesterday. We have also removed from your ship valuable works of art stolen from the Barnes Foundation. I suggest that you cooperate with our investigation unless you want to be immediately transported to Guantanamo Bay for a less civilized interrogation.”
“I know nothing about these crimes,” Nazeur responded with faux indignance.
“Please don’t insult me,” Restrum replied.
“I demand counsel and an opportunity to consult with the Kingdom’s Consul.”
“Sheikh, perhaps you do not fully understand the seriousness of your situation. You are suspected of complicity in multiple acts of terrorism. As such, you have no right to an attorney and no right to communicate with your Consul’s office. Unless you cooperate with me, I will turn you over to my colleagues at Homeland Security. Believe me you do not want that to happen.”
“And what will happen to me if I cooperate?” Nazeur asked.
Restrum shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s not up to me. My superiors will make that call.”
Restrum showed him a picture of Shona Cohen and asked, “Do you know her?”
Nazeur nodded.
“Where is she?”
“I do not know. She left the Haji early this morning. Ari Nooris told me she would make her way to Venezuela on her own.”
“How about him?” Restrum showed Nazeur a picture of Michael Flynn.
“Yes. That is Michael Flynn the art thief. He’s the one who introduced me to the Israelis.”
For the next ninety minutes Restrum questioned Nazeur about his involvement in the plot. The interrogation session was observed by Commissioner Regan, Monroe Ossberg from Homeland Security and FBI SAC Howard Keel.
“Sheikh, one last question. We recovered nine of the missing works of art from your yacht. You told us Nooris and Flynn delivered ten paintings, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Was the George Braque oil, “The Pitcher” one of the works they stole from the Barnes for you?”
“Yes it was.”
“What did you do with it?”
Nazeur stared at his interrogators, obviously confused by the question.
“Sheikh?”
“It was in the hold with all of the paintings except the Cézanne.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“But that’s impossible! I personally inspected and supervised the storage of my paintings. There must be some mistake.”
George Restrum smiled at his prisoner and said, “Sheikh it looks like you’re the victim of a crime. Someone stole the painting you stole from the Barnes.”
“Gentlemen, do you want to check with Washington to decide how to handle the Nooris brothers and Rabinowitz?” Commissioner Regan asked Ossberg and Keel.
“How about His Highness and the missing painting?” Ossberg asked.
“I think we’ve gotten everything we can from him. As to the painting, maybe Flynn took it. Who knows?” Regan replied. “Anyway, perhaps DC can use Nazuer as a chip in exchange for something from the Saudis.”
“Commissioner, we’ll consult with the Director and the Secretary and let you know what they decide. You and your men did good work. Sorry we gave you such a hard time,” Keel said as he extended his hand to Commissioner Regan.
FORTY-FOUR
It was a quiet night at the Grape Tavern. No one seemed to be in the celebratory mood in the wake of the attack on the Mall, so O’Malley figured he would close early. After the staff finished cleaning up, he moved a stool to the corner of the bar and counted the till. The moment O’Malley saw Flynn walk through the door he reached for the sawed-off shot gun he kept behind the bar. He smiled as he felt the buckshot enter the chamber as he pointed the ugly weapon at his uninvited visitor. He had warned Flynn to stay away from the Grape and leave his niece and her son alone. Flynn flashed him a smile and held up his hands and said, “Don’t be pointin the gun at me, O’Malley. I’m not here lookin for trouble.”
“So then why are ya here?”
“I’ve come to talk to you about the boy.”
O’Malley pointed the gun at Flynn and said, “I told ya that if you bother Kate or Liam I’d send ya back to Ireland in a box.”
“That you did,” Flynn said and nodded in agreement. “But I didn’t come here to hurt Kate or my son.”
“Then what are ya doin here?”
“O’Malley, I’m going to reach into my pocket and show you something, so don’t shoot me, OK?”
O’Malley nodded but continued to aim the weapon at Flynn. Flynn pulled an envelope from his back pocket and said, “Can I approach the bar and explain what this is?”
O’Malley nodded.
Flynn walked towards the bar and said, “This envelope contains information and the password for an account in a bank in Switzerland. I set up an account for Liam and designated you as the guardian. There’s 500,000 Euros in the account. I figure that ought to be enough to assure that Liam has everything he needs for his education and to take care of anything else that might come up.”
O’Malley stared at Flynn. “Ya know Kate won’t be takin any of your money.”
Flynn nodded and said, “That’s why I’m givin it to you. Danny Duffy told me I could trust you to do the right thing by the boy.”
“But what do ya want from Liam in return?”
“Nothin. You can tell him and Kate where the money’s from if ya choose to or not. Whether Kate likes it or not, the boy’s a Flynn, and we take care of our own.”
“And you won’t be comin around and botherin Liam and Kate?”
Flynn smiled and said, “Old man, I don’t think I’ll be steppin foot in this country ever again. You’ll take care of this now, won’t ya?”
O’Malley nodded.
“Then I’ll be on my way. I trust ya won’t be shootin me in my back as I leave,” he said as he turned and walked out of the bar.
O’Malley looked at the envelope and sighed. He reached for the bottle of Tullamore Dew and a tumbler, poured himself two inches of the whiskey and took a generous sip. He felt the warmth of the drink and shook his head. He had figured Michael Flynn for a black-hearted bastard. Had he been wrong? Surely Flynn must have some ulterior motive. Flynn had known that Kate would never take the money from him. But a half a million Euros! He would have to figure out how to get Kate to understand that this would assure Liam’s welfare for the rest of his life, and maybe for another generation or more.
While he figured out what to do, at least he could let Kate know that Flynn was no longer a threat to her and Liam. They could get back to their normal routine and move back to the third floor apartment. O’Malley shook his head as he realized how much he
missed having Kate and the boy around.
They had placed the Nooris brothers and Rabinowitz aka Josef Allawaite in separate holding cells at Fort Mifflin. Ari Nooris and Nochem Rabinowitz, the seasoned Mossad agents they were, sat stoically and waited for the forces beyond their immediate control to decide their fate. Avi Nooris was an entirely different story. He was not a trained agent. He found the thought of being incarcerated terrifying. He paced the cell looking without success for a means of escape.
George Restrum and FBI Special Agent Rico Valdez watched the monitor as Avi Nooris deteriorated before their eyes. “Special Agent Valdez, do you think Mr. Nooris is ready for interrogation?”
Valdez smiled and asked, “Have the white shirts given the OK?”
“Negative.”
Valdez shrugged his shoulders. “You know, we really don’t have any evidence tying Avi to the attack on the Mall. He may have been involved in the Barnes heist. If we get a shot at him, we may be able to turn him. You know, ‘Mr. Nooris, if you cooperate we may be able to save you from a trip to Gitmo,’ that kind of thing.”
“You think he’s dumb enough to buy that line of bullshit?” Restrum asked.
Valdez nodded.
“You think our bosses are smart enough to give us a crack at him?”
Valdez gave Restrum a thoughtful look and said, “I don’t know about the Commissioner, but my guys have their heads so far up their asses that it’s highly unlikely we’ll get any opportunity to squeeze that dobolu.”
“Jack, George Restrum’s guys have taken the Nooris brothers and the Allawaite imposter into custody,” Ichowitz called Regan with the news. “Nooris’ receptionist Shona and Michael Flynn are still in the wind,” he continued.
“Izz, was this from Coratelli’s tip?”
“Yes.”
“So who do you figure is his informant?” Regan asked.
Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Page 24